


Why don't I play you a tune, Darling

by sunflower123ink



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: And Harry understands this, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Harry just likes Tom's hands, M/M, Mild hand kink?, Music, Piano AU, This was written at 3 am, Tom Riddle is His Own Warning, Tom is a pianist, and forearms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:42:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27709220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflower123ink/pseuds/sunflower123ink
Summary: Hands working back and forth on the piano. Fingers pressing, veins showing and forearms flexing ever so slightly. Music that sounds like it's made from the heavens and a smirk that is as sharp as sin."Why don't you find me later, and I can play you a tune."
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 10
Kudos: 63





	Why don't I play you a tune, Darling

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So I honestly know the bare minimum when it comes to piano so I really hope this made sense. I was kind of proud to have something resembling an actual story here now haha. Some dialogue actually exists! Along with character names, because somehow I evade writing Tom and Harry's names in everything. Hope you enjoy :)
> 
> (Also be warned I wrote this at 3am, so-)
> 
> Not beta'd  
> I do not own Harry Potter, its characters, its plot, or anything written by JKR.

Fingers skimmed black and white keys faster than Harry could keep up. Notes floating through the air, lifting off of the piano and drifting in and out of his ears. The melody being performed, _created_ was unlike any he had heard. It was beautiful. The sound seemed to swirl in spirals away from the keys with each press of a long finger, twisting into a hypnotizing tune, staying for just long enough, just long enough to entrance you before the melody changed and those fingers were already pressing onto another key. Notes staying for seconds, for milliseconds, for hours, it didn't matter, they stayed in Harry's head for longer. The music was unearthly. Lilting over you, making your whole body give way to shivers.  
It was _godly_.

And those hands. Large, calloused, with long fingers and slightly too bony knuckles. A ring was set aside on a table next to the piano, delicate and intricate and Harry wondered which finger it sat on. He only wondered for as long as the just pressed key released sound into the air around him, before going back to watch the hands. It was almost more of a pleasure to just watch those hands, his hands, than to listen to the music. Almost. Maybe that was part of the appeal, the fact that those hands- Would they be dry and cool? Warm and always soft?- stretched and pushed with gentle pressure, to form these sounds. Harry didn't know piano could sound like this. Like, slow, glorious contentment. A pinky finger pressed lightly, so so lightly on a key. Harry watched.

Tension weaved itself into the air, not nearly as complex or beautiful as the pure art echoing from Riddle's piano, but just as suspending, just as promising.

And then Riddle pushed harder, more forcefully and his hands moved quick and slow and the tendons in the back of his hand flexed, and his sleeves were rolled to the elbows, forearms on proud display, working to create this music.

Harry almost questioned what was more incredible, _what_ exactly Riddle was placing on display. Himself or the different tones shifting up and down throughout the room. Everything was so artistic, so _sharp_. 

Except for the music itself. Soft and loud at the same time, sending everyone into silence. This piano, these keys, the pedals, hell, _Riddle_ , deserved silence. And he got it. Respect was commanded in the room. No one would dream of even breathing too harshly. Their lungs didn't freeze in fear or anger or anything other than _awe_. They were careful with how heavily they exhaled simply because this, this was the word beauty, circled and molded and shifted and tuned into _perfection_.

It was perfection. And Harry couldn't help but allow his eyes to widen. Allow his breathing to stutter, and stop. Let his heart speed up. Wish his glasses were cleaner, and make sure he wasn't missing anything. Wish he had better vision, only if to see the piano and Riddle with more clarity, only, if so he could see every flicker of concentration in the man's eyes.

And it was startling. It was startling to realize that Harry thought he could listen to this music for the rest of his life and never be sick of it. Never be tired of listening to the ripples of sweet chords in the room and in his ears. Never want to stop hearing _Riddle's_ music.

It was startling to realize that all Harry wanted to do was creep a bit closer and lay his head next to the piano seat, where Riddle was sitting. That Harry wanted to hear the strains of the melody right next to him, and perhaps reach out and see if he could feel the strength of the piano and feel the sounds being produced.

It was startling to realize that he not only wanted to listen to the music and feel the music, but to watch Riddle's hands. Powerful and pushing and pressing and long, and he wanted to just stare. He wanted to reach out and skate over them. Skate over his hand like those fingers were currently skating over keys. He wanted to trace the veins and tendons tensing. He wanted, he realized abruptly, to hold that hand. To understand if it felt just as powerful and capable as it looked on the pushed down keys. 

If maybe the feeling of wide eyed awe would be lessened by knowing those hands were just hands, or if even when resting, Riddle's palms would feel as though he could do anything. If his fingers would squeeze a bit too tight and be just as intense as his piercing grey eyes were.

Harry wanted, to run his own palms over Riddle's forearms, and listen to the music lulling him into a relaxed state, though not to sleep, because there was no way he would shut his eyes and slip into unconsciousness when Riddle was _still creating_ pure, _raw_ art. 

Harry wanted, Harry _wanted_. That was the realization that made his eyes widen farther. That made him aware enough to wipe his clammy hands on his pants, to make sure his mouth was tightly shut, not dropped, bottom lip parting to exhale slightly in admiration and, _excitement_. His heart was racing and his throat felt dry, much too dry to continue standing here listening to Riddle somehow construct a masterpiece, a spider web of melody's that raced through his pulse, increasing in intensity each time Riddle upped the vigor of his piece.

The flow of music was _utterly_ gorgeous, it was _deviant_. Riddle. _Riddle_ was gorgeous and deviant and his hands made Harry want to do things he shouldn't want to do, and he had a sudden desire to see what the ring on the round, wooden table looked like on Riddle's hand, and what his neat nails felt like.

The piece finished and Harry felt something like loss pang within him and yet, he didn't know whether it was because of the music no longer gliding around him and intertwining, seemingly with how fast his heartbeat was, or because Riddle was standing and his arms relaxed, hands no longer shifting, forearms no longer contracting, too bony knuckles no longer pressing down onto keys.

With the loss comes the ability to look at Riddle's face though, and the loss feels a little less harsh when Harry's eyes make contact with a jawline, and then cheekbones, and then a nose, and then intense, eyes. Eyes that belong to the someone who just designed the most enrapturing, mesmeric, _erotic_ , piece of music Harry had ever heard. Eyes that are flying over Harry rapidly, up and down, and then slower, and when they make eye contact again, there is something depraved in those eyes.

And Harry, Harry _loves_ it.

A smirk sharper than the quick 'D' note that rung out a few seconds earlier. Eyes that suggest he would happily debauch Harry. (Harry would be okay with it.) A few words.

"Did you like the show?"

The delicate, metal ring sits on Tom's right ring finger.  
Harry eyes it where Tom twists it back and forth. He looks back up, face undeniably flushed and-

"Don't worry." A curl falls over his brow with the murmured words. He leans forward and Harry doesn't lean back, just as ensnared, just as caught and trapped as he was when Tom had been playing.

"I know you did." 

He turns around, looks over his shoulder and Harry vows, in the back of his head to not allow Tom to freeze him like this next time.

"Why don't you find me later, and I can play you a tune." In a low tone, that makes goosebumps rise on his arms. It's teasing and sinful but Harry thinks that makes sense.

The smirk is devious and dangerous and Harry is already falling for the tune still suspended in the nearly silent whispers around the room, is already falling for the ring on his right hand, is already toppling over just for the raised brow and the rolled up sleeves, and is already nodding before his mind comes out of the haze that it had been put into by standing in this room and listening to the devil before him.

It makes sense, that Tom's music and words, ( _and mouth_ ) would be sinful, if he is the devil.

Harry doesn't think he minds.

**Author's Note:**

> Really hope you guys liked it. Remember I thrive off of feedback, (good or bad) so feel free to comment something!  
> I'm proud of you, hope you have a good day, or had, if your day is already over.  
> Love <3
> 
> (Also I stared at the screen for five minuets deleting and retyping the word 'erotic' in that one passage. I didn't know, couldn't decide, was it too much-)


End file.
